Bridge of Souls (26 page)

“Ah, here’s your other companion,” Maegryn said. “Rollo is one of the King’s most trusted men, le Gant. No tricks, eh? He’s also one of our best archers and won’t hesitate to sink another arrow into that shoulder of yours.”

Gueryn smiled at Rollo. Rollo did not smile back, and Gueryn recalled with vivid intensity his aborted escape, the arrow ripping through skin and nerves, muscle and bone. He was in no hurry to feel that sensation again, yet knew he would risk it if the opportunity for escape presented itself. “Have no fear,” he assured, lying easily.

Maegryn gave some final instructions regarding the horses and Gueryn submitted to having his hands loosely strung together.

“You can still handle the horse with ease. Just a precaution, you understand?” Rollo said.

Gueryn pulled a face to suggest it was of no consequence to him and then made use of Maegryn’s offered leg up to hoist himself into the saddle. The other men followed suit, and after a nod from Rollo, the party eased itself away from the stable compound.

T
HEY HAD TRAVELED A SHORT DISTANCE THROUGH THE NIGHT USING MAGIC
. T
HE BOY HAD PERFORMED THE MAGICAL TRANSPORTATION AND
then slept restlessly, sometimes crying out, presumably in pain. Now awake, he squatted, pale and quiet, chewing sharvan leaves.

Knave wanted to ask Fynch what he had meant the previous day when he answered the kestrel’s question so audaciously, but he did not dare. When Fynch had finally roused himself from the curious stupor he had fallen into after the bird’s departure, he had been withdrawn and Knave had sensed it was no time for talk. Movement was best and so he had suggested they walk for a time and then sleep until the early hours, which they had done. When the time came, Knave had marveled at the speed with which Fynch had conjured the spell to create what could only be described as a bridge to the Thicket. When the Thicket responded, Knave felt a pulse like a thick plume of air punched into his side. The next moment he landed, breathless, alongside Fynch on a safe ledge deeper into the Razors and closer to their prey.

“All right, Knave?” Fynch had whispered.

Yes,
he had replied, and that had been the end of the conversation. Fynch had settled immediately and slept. Once again, the dog had lain down beside his companion and kept the youngster’s body warm with his own.

Now it was time to move again.
Are we waiting for something?
Knave risked.

“For Kestrel. I feel him.”

How is the pain?

“Not unbearable,” Fynch answered. “Thank you,” he added, and Knave knew he meant it. Then: “Kestrel speaks,” and Fynch opened his mind to share the communication with Knave.
Where are you?
he asked the bird across the leagues that divided them.

Just outside Sharptyn. I have found her.

Good,
he replied calmly.
What can you see?

She seems to be a prisoner—she walks with shackled hands and feet. There are others, all women. Men guard them. And there’s a child—a small girl belonging to one of the men, I think. The girl talks to your friend.

Is Elspyth injured?

Pretty name.
There was a pause.
Not injured, but she looks frightened.

What are they doing now?
Fynch pressed his temples and Knave knew the pain was back.

I can’t really tell. I would guess that they are stretching their limbs because they came out of a shed a short while ago.

Fynch. You must stop,
Knave urged.

Fynch nodded.
Kestrel, I am so grateful to you. Can I trouble you to remain there awhile longer?

No trouble.

Thank you. I’ll talk again shortly.
Fynch closed the link.

You cannot keep doing this,
the dog cautioned.

“We must save her.” Fynch’s tone was stubborn.

How?

“You must go to Valentyna and get her help.” The dog’s silence made his exasperation clear. “Please, Knave.”

We have a task to complete.

“And I will finish it as promised. But I also promised that I would help Wyl’s cause. I will not forgive myself if Elspyth perishes.”

We are helpless.

“Not helpless. Just distant. I can fix that.”

No, Fynch.

“Yes. If you won’t go, I will.”

A difficult silence lengthened between them as the huge
dog regarded the trembling yet implacable boy. Knave knew the suffocating pain Elysius had suffered, even though the sorcerer had used his magic infrequently and with utmost care. Knave could not imagine the burden Fynch was bearing right now.

You’ll send me?

“And bring you back when you’ve delivered her a note.”

That will still take days.

“Not if I send you the entire distance.”

Fynch! It will kill you.

“Trust me. I am stronger than you think.”

The dog felt helpless. He had no doubt his companion would send himself back to Werryl if he did not comply.
And you will promise to continue on alone?
he asked.

Fynch covered his face, pushing his fingers against his eyes. His answer was mumbled and weak. “Yes, of course.”

Rashlyn will sense the magic,
Knave warned.

“I don’t care. Elspyth could die.”

So could you.

“I am already sacrificed.”

Oh, Fynch.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound cruel, but you must do this for me. I will prepare a note. Valentyna can send help.”

Can you write?
the dog asked, looking for a reason to prevent this madness.

“I know some letters…enough to convey the urgency.”

Knave looked at him gravely.
There is a cave over there. You must rest for a while before you travel on.

“I think you’re right,” Fynch admitted. He dug into his sack for a scrap of parchment he had had the foresight to throw in, but although he had brought a quill, he had forgotten ink in his rush. “I’ll use blood,” he said matter-of-factly, and, without hesitating, dragged a small knife across his palm.

He scrawled five words only, spelled incorrectly but clearly enough: Elspyth, Sharptyn south, huts, danger. He had to dip the quill frequently into the pool of blood in his palm. Knave
could not watch, disgusted with this turn of events but also feeling helpless.

“For Valentyna only, you understand?”

I understand.
Knave allowed Fynch to tie the parchment around his neck with some trailing grass vines. It was fragile but would make the journey.

“Ready?”

Do it!
the dog instructed, unable to conceal his dissatisfaction any longer.

“I’ll wait to hear,” Fynch said, hugging the dog briefly. Without wasting another word, he sent Knave tumbling through a magical tunnel arcing from the Razors to Werryl.

Knave landed softly on all fours, checked that the parchment was still in place, and then took his bearings. He was in the woodlands just beyond Werryl city, where the Queen liked to ride. Sighing to himself, he set off at a lope toward the palace.

Back in the Razors, Fynch retched pitifully, but there was nothing to be expelled. He curled up, exhausted, in his cold but dry cave and, chewing on his decreasing supply of sharvan leaves, drifted toward sleep—the only place where respite from his aching head was to be found.

I
t was late afternoon of Elspyth’s second day as prisoner. The first had passed in a blur caused by the drug and the shock of her situation. She was still too stunned to take in all that had happened to her, but she had been able to realize that she was among women only; there were no male prisoners. Released from the huts, she found the courage to speak to one of her fellow prisoners.

“What are we doing here?”

“Finally found your voice, then. Don’t worry, we’re all the same when we first arrive.”

“What is this place?”

“We’re prisoners. They trick us, trap us, and keep us here.”

“What for?”

“Who are you? You’re not Briavellian, are you?”

“My name is Elspyth. I’m from Yentro, northern Morgravia.”

The woman raised her eyebrows. “You’re a long way from home, Elspyth, and you’ll certainly wish you’d never been duped by Ericson. I’m Alda, from southeastern Briavel.”

“He’s trapped us, you say?”

Alda nodded. “For his sport.”

Elspyth gaped at her companion. “Sport?” she repeated.

“Well, it’s for all of them, really. He just gets paid a lot for finding us.”

“Alda,” Elspyth said, her voice shaking now. “What do you mean?”

A bird screeched in the tall trees. Both women glanced up but neither could see the kestrel perched there.

“We fight and they bet on us. After three wins, we’re sold on. I’ve got one more win to go to get out of here.”

Elspyth opened her mouth to speak but had no words. Finally she croaked, “Sold?”

“There’s a good slave trade out of Morgravia’s south. Didn’t you know?” the woman asked, clearly surprised.

“I had no idea.”

“Oh yes. A very good trade. Ships from the Exotic Isles slip in and out of a tiny bay called Cheem, east of Ramon, west of Argorn. They pick up slaves regularly.” She shrugged at the disbelief on the newcomer’s face. “At least it’s an escape from this—but you have to survive three bouts, of course.”

It was too much for Elspyth to take in. “What sort of fighting is it? Bare hands?”

Now the woman laughed harshly and Elspyth heard a hint of despair in her voice. “Blades, you fool. To the death. You will be fighting for your life tonight, my girl, and for the right to be shipped off as a slave. Forget your former self—it doesn’t exist anymore.” Then she became wistful, the bravado shattering. “Perhaps one day I’ll see my family again, track down my son, but right now I have to make it through one more fight.”

Elspyth grabbed her companion’s arm. “Alda, I don’t know how to fight.”

“None of us know, girl! It’s pure animal instinct that has kept me alive. I suggest you find some of your own or your blood will be splashed across the main hut’s dust tonight.”

Elspyth, shocked and upset, could not help the tears that began to trickle down her cheeks.

Alda pushed Elspyth’s hands from her sleeve. “Expect nothing from me, or anyone else, for that matter. No one has friends here. We don’t know who we’ll have to kill next to survive. Two days ago I killed someone I liked. I don’t want to know you or feel sorry for you, because you might be the woman I have to kill tonight.” She paused, and her tone softened slightly. “Ericson dreamed it all up apparently. Did he use the young girl to lure you?”

Elspyth nodded blindly through her tears.

“No good blaming yourself. I fell the same way, accepting a seemingly kind offer of a lift, trying to get back from Werryl to my family more quickly than I could on foot. They’re experts at picking the perfect mark.”

“What were you doing in Werryl?” Elspyth asked, desperate to prolong any conversation that might take her mind off what was hurtling toward her. She heard the shriek of the bird again but ignored it, finding herself on her knees in the dust, clinging to Alda’s skirts.

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to share anything more with you. Don’t think we’re friends. I can’t help you—won’t help you. You’d best prepare yourself. It’s either kill or be killed. Get that straight now.”

Alda ripped herself away and hurried to the other side of the compound. No one saw the tears she shed there over her own cruelty. What sort of monster had these men turned her into?

W
yl too was preparing for death, except he welcomed it. Dying again would be his salvation and he wondered
who he would become. In truth he did not care; all he knew was that he could not bear to be Ylena for much longer. He knew that ultimately he would have to become Celimus, but he clung to Fynch’s quiet belief that random acts could change the course of Myrren’s Gift. He desperately wanted to believe in anything that might spare him living as Celimus. As much as he loved the idea of marrying Valentyna, the notion of walking in the body of the present King of Morgravia was repulsive. Every time he saw the vision of Celimus’s face before him, he had to draw on all his strength to force it away.

In the end, to distract himself from his downward-spiraling thoughts, he washed Ylena’s face and combed her hair. Wyl tied it back once again, not prepared to allow the soft waves of golden tresses to pool around her narrow shoulders. He also refused to change out of his riding trews. There would be no curtsying today. He did, however, dust his garments as best he could, having decided that Ylena should not die looking ragged and filthy. Wyl knew appearance and presentation had been high on his sister’s list of priorities and looking pretty was the least he could do for her considering that he was contriving to bring about her death—a second time.

He glanced at the small tarnished mirror that Jessom had provided. Not even its rusted surface could hide the ethereal radiance that shone from Ylena’s visage. She was gaunt now, but somehow that only added to her ghostly beauty; it reminded Wyl of how of their mother had looked when she was laid out following her death.

The wasting fever had shrunk his mother’s willowy figure to a skeletal state, and she had died gasping for one more lungful of air, but in her death repose Helyna of Ramon remained breathtakingly lovely. Ylena would be the same, Wyl promised himself as he stared out through eyes that were so full of sorrow that they looked even larger than usual.

Wyl threw the mirror down, shattering it across the flagstones, glad that it would never reflect that sad, haunting face again.

He turned at the sound of footsteps. It was Harken, together with the older officer from earlier in the day.

“I thought you had gone,” Wyl said, gathering his unraveling emotions.

“Our company was called back this afternoon to guard the arrival of the Mountain King.”

“You have been summoned,” the older soldier cut across them both. “The lad here seemed determined to see you again.”

“And how kind of you to let him,” Wyl said, bitterness lacing his tone. “It is a pity you don’t feel the same loyalties to General Thirsk that I would expect from a soldier of the Legion.”

“He’s dead, or hadn’t you noticed?” the man answered with a cruel grin. “Thirsk is no good to us now. We’re stuck with the nasty royal brat and the only way any of us will survive is to follow his orders.”